We're coming over the rise and now see the Mile 9 marker. My back hurts, my feet hurt. Weather's cool, thank God. My girlfriend Georgia is in front of me. Two guys in BDU's and wearing rucksacks trudge past me and say "Hi", then move on down the trail. I plod past the 9-mile marker...only 15 more miles to go. Boy, I hope I make it.

This whole wretched saga began when I read an article in Men's Health about a hike held in memory of the men who lived and died during the Bataan Death March during World War II. Of the 70,000 American and Filipino soldiers who surrendered, 16,000 men died in the hands of ruthless Japanese soldiers as they were mercilessly marched 63 miles through the Philippine jungles. If you stumbled or fell, you got a bullet or were beheaded. No mercy, no quarter given. Now White Sands Missile Range in Mew Mexico hosts an annual memorial march to give accolades to these POW's. Twenty-six-point-two miles through the desert - military and civilians invited. Starts at 6:00AM and ends when you cross the finish line or die. And don't stray off the trail; unexploded ordinance "may cause problems."

I had considered going on the Bataan Memorial Death March several times, but always had a reason not to go; had to work, the truck wasn't running well, the moon wasn't in the proper phase, etc, etc. I'd tell people I was training for the hike, but deep down I figured I'd never really go.

Then I met Georgia.

We had gone out several times, then one day I mentioned the Death March. I said I was training for it, but couldn't go because of (whatever the daily excuse was). Then she said, "We should go! We have six months to train for it!"

We?

I stuttered some lame excuse, and she said, "C'mon, be a man! We can do it!" I groaned, looked up to heaven, and said, "Nice one, God."

So the serious training began. Weights, treadmill, hiking, equipment purchases. Research. Attitude adjustments. Hell, I'm 54-years-old, and she's 47. Sure, we're both in good shape for our age, but I can feel arthritis knocking at the door. I've already retired once (from the military), and have 3 grand kids...heck, I should be driving around in a big old RV and going to AARP meetings. But Nooooo; here I am in the New Mexican desert going eye-to-eye with every insecurity I've spent my whole life trying to ignore.

So the morning of the march Georgia and I got up at 2:00 AM (or, in military parlance, "o-dark-thirty"), and went to the local IHOP for breakfast. By 4:30 we're on base at the formation area. It was an interesting site. Large tents striped red and white, thousands of people milling around, everyone in a jovial mood, freezing my butt off...life didn't get better than this. Military from all branches were there, along with German and Canadian troops. There were young and old there. It was almost a carnival atmosphere, which also included the mandatory 20-person line in front of each porta-potty. Around 5:15, the opening ceremonies began with the color guard. Then the expected speech was given, which became somber as the names of 19 survivors of the original Bataan march were read off - those who had died since the previous year's memorial march. Then we all formed up at the starting line. At 6:00 AM the cannon went off, scaring the hell out of everyone. We were off! Over the loud speakers Toby Keith's "American Soldier" played, followed by Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American." As we left the starting line, several stooped old men in WWII uniforms were sitting in a golf cart, shaking hands with each hiker as they passed. Original Bataan survivors. As I shook each hand, each man looked me in the eye and said "Thank you". Only later, in pain, humbled and exhausted, would I realize what they meant.

We visited in May, when the desert was truly alive, especially once we turned into the park gates just off Highway 285 north of town. After driving through stark scrub desert to the north, we were greeted on the park road by tall, snaking ocotillo with fiery red tips and prickly pear cacti covered with large yellow blossoms and furled pink buds. Perhaps because of an unusually rainy spring, the blossoms were budding not only on the edges of the spiked pads but even in the centers of the pads.

The road wound up to a low building on a ridge overlooking the Pecos River valley and town of Carlsbad. We would soon learn we were at 3,200 feet, atop the Ocotillo Hills, named for the bright cactus that had greeted us. Around the large parking lot were large soaptree yucca, also covered in enormous, spiky white blooms, and many species of agave, or century plant. These giants grow close to the ground, storing energy for about twenty years before sending up a single blossoming stalk to reproduce, after which the plants die. Those twenty years must have seemed like a century to whoever gave the agave their common name.

Her name was Victoria Louise Massey.She was born in Midland, Texas in 1902.

But her musical career began in 1918 in Roswell. She dropped the name "Victoria" andformed a band with her father, Henry Massey, her husband, Milt Mabie and her two brothers, Allen and Curt Massey.At that time it was called the Massey Family Band but later it became Louise Massey and the Westerners.Their home at 209 W. Alameda Street was modest and attractive.It was here that the Redpath Chautauqua auditioned the group.

Each year the Food Network showcases the World's Richest Chuckwagon Cook-off in Ruidoso, New Mexico. It is a wonderful program that captures the nostalgia and culinary excitement of the Chuckwagon Cook-off and each year we here at SouthernNewMexico.com get flooded with viewers searching for more information. This year, I'm being proactive. I'm bringing the information to you.